


The Ant and the Fire

by emmaliza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Overstimulation, Pretentious Porn, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If Marius is a fog then Grantaire is a haze. He's all smoke and darkness, the grime of the city street, an impentrable screen through which the world becomes grey and opaque."</p>
<p>In which Marius is confused and Grantaire is perceptive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ant and the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> From a kink meme prompt asking for Marius/Grantaire inspired by a certain scene in Savage Grace. This was originally meant to be just rarepair smut, but then things got weird.

If Marius is a fog then Grantaire is a haze. He's all smoke and darkness, the grime of the city street, an impentrable screen through which the world becomes grey and opaque.

Marius doesn't remember how he came to be here, propped up against the wall, laying on a grubby mattress, the sun streaming through torn curtains. He thinks Grantaire may have torn his shirt in his eagerness to discard it, but that is something Marius will worry about later, when he no longer feels so addled in the mind. Grantaire has the scent of a drug, the taste of wine and opium on his lips. Even Marius isn't enough of a lightweight to get drunk off the alcohol in someone else's breath, but Grantaire sends him reeling, and he cannot fully explain it.

"Pretty thing, aren't you?" Grantaire says as he nips at the side of Marius's neck. He has been talking since Marius arrived. He seems to do that a lot, and Marius has long since given up on listening to it all; he didn't even start to respond. The spoken word does not suit him; his words tangle and trip over his thoughts and he spills his mind in an undignified, ugly mess. He does not know how Grantaire does it, keeps on talking when the blood in his veins is probably turning purple from wine. It's quite admirable. "Odd-looking, but still. All freckles and cheekbones... and lips." Grantaire presses another kiss to his mouth, tongue sliding over Marius's lower lip obscenely. Marius opens his mouth to grant him access, just as Grantaire pulls away. "The eyes of a monk and face of a catamite. What a combination."

Marius is thankful for the summer sun that makes his hideous blush a little less obvious, though he doesn't know what he thinks he's hiding. Grantaire bends down to bite and suckle at Marius's collarbone. His tongue is rough, his teeth a little yellow, and his eyes black. Marius groans and whimpers. Grantaire smiles as his worn calloused hand drifts across Marius's ribs.

"It wouldn't kill you to eat something every once in awhile," Grantaire mutters, and Marius is vaguely annoyed. It is not as if food is necessarily always easy to come by. He's always been thin, ever more so in his poverty, but it is not something he enjoys being mocked for. "One good breeze and you'll just blow away."

Grantaire kisses him again, and this time does breech his mouth with his tongue; Marius arches up into the kiss slightly. Grantaire tastes like tobacco and brandy and other things Marius can't stand, and yet somehow the taste excites him, dark and poisonous as it is. He whimpers as Grantaire flicks at a nipple, and Grantaire pulls back, amused. "So sensitive. A virgin, no doubt. An innocent waif; Christ, how are you even a real person?"

His nails are rough and bitten; he is not gentle as he presses the tip of his thumb into Marius's chest, and drags, forming a ragged scratch across his breast. Marius gasps, his sun-induced redness unable to hide the mark. Sweat drips down his neck and onto his chest, and he winces at the pain as it hits that scratch. With the pad of his thumb Grantaire rubs at the line, which only makes Marius cringe further.

Grantaire's thick, square hands move again, roaming Marius's chest and grabbing roughly, making him mewl (he would be embarrassed, but it seems a bit late for that now). "I don't even know what to say to you," Grantaire admits with a sardonic smile. "What to do. I've got a feeling if I just act like myself I'll tear you in half. I've got a feeling that's what you want from me."

Marius groans again. What does he want? He doesn't know. He feels like he is under a spell, like he ate the faeries' fruit and is now caught in their lair. The sun streaming through the window makes him feel like an ant under a magnifying glass.

"This is really a terrible idea on your part," Grantaire drawls, sucking at the edge of Marius's jaw, leaving the sort of kiss that bruises (and it scares Marius that he doesn't stop to panic over that). "Me. I'm filthy, wretched, sad; a drunk and a wastrel, and a repressed romantic. You don't want anything to do with me. What good little boy would?"

Marius _moans_. That's right, he really is nothing but a little boy, not quite twenty and with the whole world seeming alien. Grantaire is maybe six years older than him at most, and yet he feels a lifetime away; the world itself seems contained within this man. Marius sticks his hand into the fire cautiously, entranced by the flame and the smell of smoke, but knowing he'll be burnt.

There is pressure against his hips, and Marius realises Grantaire is undoing the front of his trousers. That should shock him, scare him, wake him up. But instead he lays back and allows it to continue, biting on his swollen lips (though with him, how can you tell?). Vaguely, he feels a pain in his neck from the awkward angle at which he leans against the wall. But it feels so distant. His thoughts are in pieces, his reason and his principles put in boxes, and he has somehow put them somewhere strange. He has not lost his mind, simply misplaced it. Once this finishes he will regret it. He will be appalled and ashamed. But for now he is not -- for now he is barely him.

Grantaire wraps a hand around Marius's cock and gives one fast stroke, and Marius bucks, whining. Grantaire has not removed him from his trousers, not fully, and Marius knows when he comes it will be visible for all to see. He will be shamed, walking home with the evidence of this on his clothing. Why doesn't he say something?

The touch is not gentle; Grantaire jerks him roughly, irregularly, wearing a slight look of distraction. His calluses rub against the base of Marius's cock, and he thinks that hurts a little (he's not quite sure). He rolls his hips, uncertain how to respond but enjoying it, wanting to show Grantaire he enjoys, although he's fairly sure the man already knows. Grantaire barely reacts, sighing, and leaning down again to place his lips over Marius's adam's apple. His wrist crooks in a way that must be uncomfortable, but Marius does not say anything of it; he whines as Grantaire scrapes his teeth over his neck.

"The thing is, you're not even acting," Grantaire mutters, squeezing Marius's prick tighter. "And you're not trying. You don't make an effort to be an innocent. You're just really that pure. And it's scary as hell, because -- you have that sadness within you, and -- fuck."

Grantaire cuts himself off, and Marius is confused.

"I don't," he stutters, speaking for the first time in hours, "I don't understand."

Grantaire sighs, and digs his teeth into the side of Marius's neck. He presses his thumb to the head of Marius's cock and presses, stroking in rough, forceful circles. Marius gasps. "You're gonna break," he says. "People like you do. Something will happen, some terrible thing, and the good little boy--"

Marius moans again, his body suddenly seized and yanked off the bed; he comes, staining himself, writhing and whimpering, a tear coming to his eye. Just a little boy. His body drops back down on the bed, and some awareness of his body finally returns to him. His neck hurts, his trousers cling, his lips are torn, and his softening prick -- it throbs and leaks at every move of Grantaire's hand.

Grantaire hasn't stopped touching him.

Marius can't describe the sound he makes, squirming as Grantaire strokes him red and raw. He also can't describe Grantaire's face, a bizarre expression between amused and sad that rather frightens him. It hurts, being wrung out like this, but he doesn't ask Grantaire to stop. He doesn't want Grantaire to stop. He gets the impression once this ends then everything will fade away; he'll be forced away from the fire and into the cold to face the reality of the situation, and that frightens him far more.

"People either break or they die before they get the chance to do so. Somehow I reckon you'll be the former." Grantaire's mouth quirks in a way that tells him he's not thinking of Marius anymore at all. "Some people, you know they'll die before the world even gets a fair shot. And myself, well, pretty sure I was born broken."

Marius still doesn't understand and he gasps at the unflinching assault. Finally, Grantaire lets him go. He freezes. Oh god, it's so cold.

He yanks Grantaire's hair and pulls him back down, kissing him again with as much force as he can muster. He is desperate. He's not sure why. Grantaire is surprised but kisses him back, Marius sliding off the wall and onto the bed fully, and Grantaire's hand drops onto Marius's chest. He leaves a trail of come there and Marius whines.

Grantaire pulls back and Marius tugs on his hair again, scared. Grantaire smirks and raises his palm to his mouth, licking Marius's come from between his fingers. His tongue looks the flame on a candle, lapping. Then they kiss again, and Marius shares the taste of his come with Grantaire, groaning. It's filthy and depraved, but he can't let it go; to do so might kill him. He's not sure what he's so afraid of. Is he afraid of breaking? Is he afraid once he emerges from the haze, he will look and realise he has broken himself?

They part again, obtaining a distance of less than an inch, and Marius feels the urge to speak.

"Don't worry," he says, forcing a horrific smile between his sore lips, "it hasn't happened yet."


End file.
